Jonson

O rare Ben Jonson, you who wrote "To Celia," Presager of that later note, "Bedelia," To you, rare Ben, our hat we raise For all your poems and your plays.

You knew, forsooth, if Shakespeare's work Was taken, Like copies by a scrawling clerk, From Bacon; You would have known of that flimflam Without a hidden cryptogram.

O rare Ben Jonson, with your pen You labored, And with brave lords and gentlemen You neighbored-- You never turned out feeble farce In sentences that would not parse.

To managers you ne'er were made To grovel, And, Ben, you never called a spade A shovel-- Where you wrote sentences risque We now have costumes very gay.

O rare Ben Jonson, when you asked That lady To drink, her name you never masked As "Sadie," Nor did you call her "Creole Belle" Or half the song names we might tell.

"Drink to me only with thine eyes!" Your sighing Showed you no steins of any size Were buying. But from the way the stanzas run, You, rare Ben Jonson, were well done.